It started with a feeling in the belly button, a pull from my phantom umbilical cord I had forgotten about so long ago. My heart ached for it, wanted to go to be at rest in the snow and the dark and the swirling dust sparkling from the skies. Perhaps a rare glimpse into a real kind of nomadism, still linked with the soil and the wood and the bone of the land, something with more sustenance than the city-skirting slip-space wandering of so many years searching for something tangible to feed that hungry spot, ancient. Perhaps to dissolve into the colors and shapes and stories of the imaginerium of Christmas - to touch the roots of the now empty, warped shell of one of the most blindly celebrated holidays in my own culture, in order to understand where the elves and the reindeer and the pointy shoes really come from. Perhaps to look into eyes blue and hair blonde and see the kinship of being native to a place - native to a homeland whose bounty you tend and protect and fight for. To answer the ponderings of whether Aryans are capable of tending and loving the wild rather than destroying it.
To feel the cold in my bones and feel the cold in my ancestor's homes.
An 18 hour train ride to from Stockholm in the south headed north along the coast through snow and trees, sprinkled with lonely red barnhouses.
We were destined for JokkMokk, in the very most northern municipality of Sweden, in the arctic circle.
And damn it felt good to be walking the world again.